


No Secrets

by orphan_account



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Porn with Feelings, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 05:08:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6597994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post S2. Sometimes it can take a lot of effort to say those three words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Secrets

They’ve settled into something like a routine now. It’s gotten to the point where he can’t quite remember how many times they’ve had sex – not that he’s been keeping notches on his bedpost – but it’s stopped being a novelty. It feels normal, if erratic, since it isn’t always easy to plan one of these clandestine meetings.

Two weeks ago he’d given her a key to his apartment. It’s a shitty little one-bedroom place just outside of Broadchurch. He stays there half the week to make the commute to his teaching job easier. He’d hated it at first, principally for the sin of not containing Daisy since she only stayed with him at his bigger place in Sandbrook, but now that it sporadically contains Ellie it's growing on him.

Tonight he is in for a pleasant surprise.

When he opens the door there's a vase of bright flowers set on the table. The window is open a crack, admitting fresh air, and a half-empty tub of ice cream can be seen.

More incriminating is the orange coat slung over the chair. He doesn’t need to be a detective to work out who is responsible.

‘Hello?’ he calls cautiously, closing the door behind him.

Ellie appears. Her hair is down and the curls tumble around her neck with odd, artless grace. She's wearing a baggy grey shirt and trousers. It doesn't exactly scream sexy, but he knows her well enough to recognise that this relaxed state is an expression of intimacy.

‘I’ve taken tomorrow off. The boys are with Luce,’ she tells him. That appears to be the end of her foreplay, for she promptly clasps his hand and pulls him into the bedroom.

He's irritable and exhausted after a long day at work, but his bad mood quickly melts away at her touch. He hums, half in surprise and half in happiness, as she kisses him.

It’s dark in his flat. The sun sets early in these winter months, and neither of them bother to turn on the light in the bedroom. By the hazy glow coming from the kitchen, they navigate to the tiny single bed.

‘I’ve been thinking about this all week,’ she sighs into his ear. He shivers at the admission.

Her fingers work at his buttons. Shoes, jacket, tie, shirt, trousers… it all comes away so easily at her touch. He wears his suit like it’s his armour, and she divests him of it. There's a certain impatience to her actions, and when he tries to push her onto the bed she resists and switches position so that he’s on the bottom and she’s on top.

She's the boss. He has to remember that. He's so used to being the DI and barking orders that it's nice to let someone else take charge. And boy, does she excel in her position of authority.

It’s fast and dirty and far too intense, like their lovemaking often is. He comes first, but she’s close when he does, and he dutifully finishes her off with his fingers.

There comes a brief respite. Hardy finally speaks.

'How's your week been?'

She laughs into his clavicle. 'Shit. And yours?'

'Shit. Better now.' He sits up and tugs his shirt back on. Ellie sits up with him.

'Christ, it's freezing in here,' she says. She stretches until something cracks.

'Heating's broken.'

'Seriously? Ugh.'

He pulls his trousers on next. 'You want something to eat?'

'I've already eaten all your bread,' she says, without a hint of apology.

He runs a hand through his hair and tries to think of what else is in his flat.

'I bought ice cream and chocolate,' she offers.

'Just the essentials, then.'

'Yeah. But I ate most of the ice cream already.'

'How generous.'

'It's your fault for taking so long.'

'To be fair, I didn't know you were going to be here.'

'Neither did I until a few hours ago.'

He retreats to the kitchen to scrape something together for dinner. All his bread is gone, and most of his teabags, but there is some leftover pasta from the other night still in the fridge, which he supposes Ellie shunned for the crime of being healthy. Lacking a microwave, he heats it on the stovetop.

Ellie pads in, her footsteps muffled by a pair of thick socks. She has appropriated his shirt and blue sweater, and they're comically oversized on her.

There's something about seeing her wearing his clothes that affects him deeply. He's not sure there's anything she could wear that he would find more appealing.

Ellie tucks her arms into the floppy sleeves so it looks like she has no hands. Thus accoutred, she slips her arms around his waist, rests her cheek on his back and squeezes.

'Be nice to have you stay the night,' he comments.

'And some of the morning,' she says, like a woman with a lot of plans.

'We don't often get this much time to ourselves.'

'No.'

Between work and childcare and the need to keep their arrangement a secret, it meant the moments they had together were hasty. They fucked quickly, often not even bothering to take off all their clothes. It left precious little time for cuddling or napping together, and they savoured those moments of intimacy as much as they savoured the sex.

Ellie turns her head to hear the slow, steady thud of his heartbeat better. A whole night - a whole _night_ all to themselves - she shivers delightedly at the prospect.

Hardy stirs the pasta with one hand. The other rubs the arms wrapped around his waist.

'How's Daisy?' Ellie mumbles against him.

'Good. She's in a wee bit of trouble at school. Getting into fights with her maths teacher. But other than that, she's good.'

'Tom's the same. Unless it's P.E. he won't try in his subjects. Driving his teachers mad. And me.'

They chat idly of inconsequential matters. Ellie eventually releases him so she can make a cup of tea and they convene at his tiny table. He only has one chair, but Ellie solved the problem the previous week by nicking a milk crate, upon which Hardy now generously sits, giving the chair to Ellie.

As they eat together, he amuses himself by filching food off her plate and teasing her when she balks at the vegetables. He finds himself looking at her with a tenderness he cannot quite explain and it strikes him that she is nearer to him than any woman he has ever met; nearer, even, than his wife had been. They talk for several hours, sometimes arguing, sometimes conversing peaceably. When Ellie turns her attention to finishing the ice cream, which has now melted into an unappetising paste, he leans forward and kisses her. The warmth of her mouth contrasts with the cold, sweet ice cream, and he feels her laugh.

They clean up together. He washes the dishes and she dries, thundering around the kitchen and opening every cupboard looking for where they go. Hardy eventually gets annoyed and demands they switch roles. She flicks soap bubbles at him. 

'Do you think,' she asks as she scrubs a stubborn stain with vigour, 'we should arrange something a little more regular between us?'

He grunts. 'I like this.'

'Like what?'

'This. Everything,' he says. His precise meaning escapes her and she does not reply.

They finish cleaning up and Hardy decides to have a shower. He takes his sweet time, but emerges at last with a towel around his waist. His hair is damp and partially towelled dry.

In the dark bedroom, Ellie is waiting for him. She's lying on her side and watching him carefully.

‘Can you turn on the light?’ she asks suddenly.

‘Why?’ he asks.

‘I want to see you.’

His quizzical expression reiterates the question.

‘It’s always in the dark,’ she complains. ‘Always hiding. Always quick, and then one of us has to leave before we’re caught. I’ve never seen you properly.’

He fights down a surge of panic and grunts. He’s not exactly comfortable with his body. He hates the feeling of exposure, the vulnerability that nudity brings. Even with Tess he’d been shy, and it certainly hasn’t been helped by years of rejection, nor that smiling scar above his collarbone or the lump in his chest that betrays his pacemaker. It’s always safer, easier, more comfortable to hide in the dark or behind layers of clothing.

But it's Ellie, and there's not a woman alive he trusts more than her. Wrestling with his instinctive apprehension, he turns the light on.

He flinches at the fluorescent, almost clinical brightness. Ellie blinks as her eyes adjust. When her gaze alights on him her eyes are soft, and there’s no judgment there. She gets up and stands by his side. She's dressed in nothing but his oversized work shirt now.

'Towel?' she murmurs. She peels it away and he lets it fall, a trifle unwillingly. 

It's one thing to be naked in front of her; it's quite another to be her object of scrutiny. Yet there's something about her  _wanting_ him,  _wanting_ to see him that drives the breath from his lungs. He'd spent so long alone, hiding from even himself, his body wasting and growing gaunt and thin as his heart failed. But he's alive now; scarred, yes, damaged, yes - but recovered enough to be an object of desire in her eyes, to make _her_ shiver with desire.

She runs a hand over his brown chest, finding chinks and flaws she never knew existed. White, ropey scar tissue stands out here and there.

‘So many scars,’ she says softly. ‘Where did you get them all?’

‘Beat cop in Glasgow,’ he replies, as if that’s all the explanation needed.

She finds the crooked appendectomy scar. ‘This one’s rather less heroic.’

‘Probably the most painful of the lot,’ he remarks. ‘’Cept maybe for this one.’

He gestures to the pacemaker scar. How he _hates_ this scar. It’s like the physical, visual manifestation of his psychological terrors, like his emotional scars made flesh.

She spreads her hand over his chest and underlines the scar with her nail. After a few moments she leans over and kisses it.

When she draws back, she brushes the hair from his eyes with her hand and smiles. Her gaze is tender, and it’s an expression he recognises. He’s caught her looking at him like this before. It speaks of craving, fixation, adoration.

'Quid pro quo,' he says, and he unbuttons her shirt - his shirt.

'You show me yours and I show you mine?' she teases, holding out her arms to make it easier.

The shirt falls to the ground and he’s lost in looking at her. Her skin is milky in contrast to his coppery. A childhood spent almost entirely in the ocean has left its legacy in the shape of freckles and uneven pigmentation. He traces constellations on her shoulders, entranced by all the details he'd missed until now, then moves lower and finds the silver stretch marks on her thighs. She shifts and blushes, and he knows she’s just as shy as he is, just as vulnerable, and somehow just as trusting.

His hand settles on her caesarean scar. He's always loved the texture of it. ‘Did you need a c-section for both boys?’

‘Yeah. Tom broke the record for biggest baby born at Broadchurch hospital. Ten days overdue. Fred was smaller, but just as stubborn.’

‘Good to know they've not changed.’

That wins a smile. He finds a small red birthmark on her back and he’s delighted with it, tracing it with one forefinger. Ellie moves a little closer to him and they clasp together, skin to skin. Her pubic hair tickles his thigh and he feels his cock twitch and throb. He's intoxicated by her proximity, her touch, her trust, and how slow and gentle it all is. She spreads her hands across his back and thighs, he across her shoulders and midriff. She studies him like she's cataloguing evidence, filing away the position of every cleft and hard muscle and sinew and scar, recording when her touch makes him shiver and what she has to do to get a response from him. She begins to kiss and suck his neck and he reciprocates by finding her entrance and gently easing two fingers inside.

She fidgets for a moment and can't seem to relax into it.

'Cold,' she complains, and pulls his body, still warm from the shower, close to her.

He withdraws his fingers, kisses her and lays her upon the bed, settling his weight atop her.

‘ _Heavy,_ ’ is her next complaint.

He grins and shuffles down her body, kissing her dusky nipples and sternum, down to her navel, where he pauses for a moment. Her belly is soft, lined with stretch marks and that long gash, gifts her sons had given her. He presses the side of his head to her warm belly, then nuzzles her abdomen with his nose and prints an open-mouthed kiss on the skin just below her belly button.

One of his hands joins the caresses, finding the solid wall of muscle behind the soft padding. Life as a police officer has toughened her. Behind that soft exterior is nothing but strength.

He delivers another kiss, this time to her caesarean scar, then moves lower again. Ellie shuffles to accommodate him and he settles between her thighs. One knee hooks over his shoulder, the other falls to the side. He kisses her inner thigh first, his thick stubble scraping the sensitive skin and making her quiver. Then he eases his way up and hums as he begins to lick, parting the lips with a sweep of his tongue.

Ellie’s head drops back against the pillow and she sighs. He devotes himself to the task, wanting to make her come, wanting nothing more than to feel her desire and the way her body responds to him and only him.

He teases her at first, and she twitches at the way he swipes and zigzags, but he avoids her clit. It’s maddening, provoking, just like their relationship often is, and she gives him a sharp prod with her foot to let him know she's ready for the main event.

He hums again and raises his head to suck her. That wins a sharp gasp and her hand grips the mattress. Smiling to himself, he takes her hand and knots his fingers through hers. The other hand squeezes her thigh and pulls her a little closer to him.

She’s practically dripping now, and he loses himself in the texture, in the contrast between the muscle and the delicate folds and wet skin. She shudders, moaning softly. When she comes, it’s gently. She bucks against him and gasps, and with her head tipped back she shivers all over.

‘Ah… _Alec_ …'

The muscles twitch and spasm, and then she lies back, her ribcage heaving. Supremely satisfied with himself, Hardy crawls up her body. Lying on her stomach, he crosses his arms over her midriff and rests his head atop them, looking at her.

When she recovers enough to look down at him, he smiles and asks, ‘good?’

‘Oh, don’t be a wanker,’ she tells him. Still panting, she clasps his face and draws him close, kissing his soft lips and tasting herself on his beard. Her arms slip underneath his and she pulls him up until he’s where she wants him.

A few deft strokes of his cock tells her he’s already good and hard. She’s so wet and hot that he slides into her with hardly any effort. Their hips rock until they adjust, and then he finds a rhythm that seems to suit both of them.

Slow and steady. Slow and hard, almost leisurely. He can feel her breath on his cheek. He presses his forehead to hers and closes his eyes, savouring this sensation of being _with_ her, almost as if they're one person. He bends his head and kisses her.

Her fingers creep down and stroke her clitoris. She shifts position and brings up her legs so they wrap around him. The change makes him groan.

‘Harder now,’ she whispers.

He obliges, and thrusts deeper into her. Her breathing is ragged, and after a little time he feels her come again. She makes a noise that’s half a whimper and half a sob.

At the clench of her muscles a rush suffuses Hardy, tingling all the way to his fingertips that tells him he’s about to come. Ellie sucks his throat, the tongue finding his pulse and measuring it for a languorous moment as he comes undone.

He says something in that moment, but he’s not exactly sure what. Perhaps it wasn’t even intelligible. She has that effect on him. Things tend to make no sense and perfect sense all at once when she’s around.

Whatever he said, the meaning was simply that he loved her.

She strokes his damp hair. When that fails to move him, she tries a tug and he gets the hint. He rolls off. They lie side by side, panting.

‘We are getting good at this, aren’t we?’ she remarks.

‘Fuck,’ he says weakly.

The cold settles upon them, an intrusive third party in their lovemaking. As their sweat cools they shiver.

‘Cold,’ Ellie complains again.

He holds out his arms.

‘You need to fix the heating,’ she says, burrowing into him.

‘Mm,’ is his reply.

She rests her head on his chest. His heart hammers against her ear and she traces his hairy chest thoughtfully. He holds her tight and tries to still her trembling body.

‘What are you thinking?’ he asks, kissing her hair.

‘I told Luce I was on a date with a plumber,’ she confesses, ‘when I asked her to take the boys. I wonder why I lied?’

‘We don’t have to keep this a secret if you don’t want.’

‘Mm. I know. I just… can’t remember why we kept it a secret in the first place.’

He’s not sure either. ‘Suppose it’s easier.’

He contemplates the woman in his arms. Ellie’s never made a candid declaration of love - nor has he, for that matter - but he’s almost certain that she does love him. After their first time together, they’d discussed previous lovers and she’d confessed that she’d had a one night stand for the first time in her life in the months after Joe left her. He understood from the way she told the story that she typically only enjoyed or wanted sex when she was in love with the other person.

It stood to reason, then, that if she were here with him she must love him.

'Ellie,' he says, and pauses, frustrated that he still finds it hard to tell her how he feels. Thoughts and feelings crowd on his tongue, but he does not have the capacity to express them.

'What is it?' she asks when his silence lengthens.

'Would you like to meet Daisy?' he blurts.

She says yes, and he thinks she understands.

After a time she gets up and brushes her teeth. He follows. At her behest, he then sits cross-legged on the floor and she sits on the bed. His head rests in the V made by her thighs and she towels his hair dry while complaining that he'll catch a cold if he tries to sleep with wet hair. He closes his eyes as she berates him, a half-smile on his lips. Once she's got him sufficiently dry, she combs her fingers through the strands, flattening them to one side.

'You need a haircut,' she tells him.

'Mm,' he agrees.

She keeps combing. 'Do you think Daisy will like me?' 

'She already does. I've told her about you. She thinks you're funny.'

Ellie pauses and puts her hands on her hips. 'Funny? Just what have you been telling her?'

'Lots of different things.' He nuzzles his head into her hands, encouraging her to keep combing. She does, doubtfully.

'What will you introduce me as?'

'Whatever you want to be.'

The statement seems to hover in the air.

'It might be nice,' she says shortly, 'if the boys came too.'

'Mm.'

'We could go somewhere. All five of us.'

'I'd like that. We've never really done something as a family before.'

Ellie stiffens. He flinches and wonders if he was too forward.

'No,' she says. 'We haven't.'

She pats his head to let him know she's done. He turns his head and kisses her thigh as a thank you.

Before they go to bed, Ellie texts Luce to check how the boys are. Her sister fires a text back almost immediately.

'She's asking me how the date's going,' Ellie informs him, a touch gloomily. 'I wish I didn't have to lie.'

'So tell the truth. Say you've just shagged him.'

'On a first date? She knows I'm not like that.'

'Then tell her the real truth.'

'That I'm shagging my boss on a weekly to bi-weekly basis? That's hardly better.'

He frowns deeply. 'Your boss?'

'Well. It's not like we're...'

'Partners.'

'Partners?'

'We are,' he says testily, 'partners.'

'Detective partners.' A smile creeps over her face, 'with benefits.'

He looks unhappy so the smile drops. 'I'll just say it's not going well,' she says. 'Time to lay Gary the plumber to rest.'

She finishes the text and puts her phone down. He turns off the light and they cocoon themselves into the tiny single bed. He locks his arms fiercely around her and smooths her curls out of his face.

'You need a haircut,' he comments, echoing her earlier words.

'After the last hairdresser I went to? I don't think so.'

She intended it to be playful, but she regrets the statement almost immediately. She's used to his nightmares now, and she knows that this person figures strongly in them. It's unkind to bring her up so carelessly.

But he doesn't even think of Claire. All his thoughts are of her. What Ellie doesn't know is that she herself has become a face in his nightmares. Not in the way Lee or Claire or Ricky are, but in the way Daisy is. The thought of losing her - losing her to _Joe_ especially - has woken him many nights. She is so dear to him it's almost suffocating. The thought of anyone or anything dividing him from her, or God forbid, _hurting_ her - is enough to leave him shaking in a cold sweat.

It frightens him how much he adores her, and how much he loves being with her like this. Not just the sex, but  _this_ \- the domesticity of it all. How comfortable and familiar it is. Being able to sleep with her and lay his head upon the same pillow as his beloved. It truly terrifies him. In his experience, happiness only existed to be taken away. Love was fleeting, ephemeral. Loneliness was constant. It could be interrupted, but it was the default state of his being. His hold on her is tenuous, her place in his world precarious.

She can feel his torment. She dips her head and gives his arm a little squeeze - _I'm here_ \- and he buries his face in her neck.

'Ellie,' he murmurs, and he cannot stop himself from saying it, 'I love you.'

She replies, 'I know.'


End file.
